


Flotsam

by flyingtheblack



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (further warnings on individual chapters), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn, Trauma, abigail slowly gains agency, diverges from canon soon after, i'll add tags as i go, in which abigail doesn't just disappear from the narrative, may or may not end up being something of a 'fix it' story, picks up right after charles town, so will the rest of the canon characters, the pairing will show up eventually i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingtheblack/pseuds/flyingtheblack
Summary: After Charles Town, Abigail Ashe finds herself alone in a strange world, struggling with grief and trauma. With everything she thought she understood turned on its head, she must face the truth of what it means to survive in the New World. But when Abigail decides to take control of her own life, where will it lead her?





	1. Chapter 1

The sun rose, but somehow the world it rose on had become something that Abigail didn't recognise.

Savannah was green and serene. The sky was blue, and the sun burned in a way it never did in England, but she had got used to that at sea. People were kind. 

Papa was dead.

Murdered by vicious pirates. That was what they said. _Poor child. Poor, poor child._ They said that too. 

Abigail had never felt less like a child.

Did she want to remain in bed? They would have some food brought to her. She wasn’t to worry—after everything she’d been through, she should rest. The doctor should come, perhaps, to give her something, something to calm her. That part was whispered by the door, but Abigail heard and called out a very definite answer. No doctor. And she didn’t want to stay in bed, or to be indoors at all. 

She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to be cooped up in a room again.

Her body followed the familiar routine of dressing. A servant came and helped with her stays. She might as well have been in England—it was as if they thought nothing had changed. As if she was still the same girl she had always been. But that girl, the child who had been Abigail Ashe, had been lost somewhere on the great, heaving, unforgiving mass of the Atlantic Ocean. The person who had been thrown ashore like a piece of flotsam on the tideline was somebody else entirely. 

She refused food or company. The garden was peaceful. Spreading trees shaded it, green moss hanging from their branches. Abigail leaned against the trunk of one, closed her eyes, and listened to the whisper of the faintest breeze in its branches. It had been a long time since she had touched a tree. Such a strange thought; she had never thought about touching trees in England. Never imagined that it might be something she would miss in long weeks at sea.

Somehow, somewhere, it had all gone terribly wrong. Perhaps if she could make sense of how, then she could rid herself of the hollow inside her. Could begin to feel something again, feel one of the emotions she knew she ought to be feeling. Papa was dead. Lady Hamilton was dead. And it felt merely as if someone had carved her heart right out of her chest, leaving only a cold cavern behind. Hardly painful, only empty.

It had been supposed to be a mission of peace. A triumph of reconciliation. The pirates were men, after all, not the monsters she’d been taught. Wronged men, many of them. Kind men, many of them, at heart. 

Men who had murdered her father. Destroyed a town. 

It had gone wrong, and Abigail didn’t understand how or why, but she understood that she was now alone. And the thought that was uppermost in her mind was: _What can I do now?_

‘Miss Ashe?’ 

Feeling as if she was swimming up from a great depth, Abigail pulled herself back into the garden, and turned to look at the speaker. It was Mrs Elliott, her hostess in Savannah. A good woman, young and not long married. She had been kind and welcoming to Abigail, but she understood nothing. 

‘Miss Ashe.’ Mrs Elliott held out a hand, with a hopeful half-smile. ‘Will you not come indoors? I know… I know this is terrible news, and so soon after your own dreadful ordeal. But we will help you, of course. My husband will write to your family in England. You must not imagine yourself friendless here.’ 

She looked into Abigail’s face, and her smile wavered into puzzlement. Perhaps she was expecting Abigail to weep and wail, or rage against the pirates. Abigail might have expected the same of herself. But if there were tears inside her, she couldn’t find them.

‘Come,’ Mrs Elliott went on. ‘You are very brave, my dear. Braver far than I could be. But do come and allow us to help you.’

And Abigail did. For the next few days, she allowed them to look after her. They treated her delicately and spoke to her in hushed tones. Prepared the choicest meals for her. Had her breakfast brought to her in bed.

She didn’t weep. They thought her strange for it, she was sure. But the more time went by, the deader that place inside her felt.

Yes, the Elliotts would help her. Her great-uncle in England would help her. She could let them take care of it all, couldn’t she? It was what she had always done—only then it had been Papa taking care of everything. Even when he was here, and she was in England, all the decisions were taken by him. 

She was alone now, and the world was a strange and frightening place. This land she had come to was vicious and dangerous. It turned good men into pirates and murderers. ( _Turned good men into unjust executioners._ It was a whisper she tried not to listen to.) The best thing to do would be to return to England. 

But what then? She couldn’t imagine. Going back to her old life would be impossible, but what choice did she have? What choice had she ever had?

‘Miss Ashe,’ Mr Elliott said one day at dinner, glancing at his wife as if for support. ‘I hope you will forgive me taking the liberty, but I sent a letter to your great-uncle. We cannot expect a reply very soon, of course. But I informed him that we would, of course, help you to make arrangements to return home as soon as you’re able to travel. I am quite certain that that is what he’ll want.’

Abigail raised her eyes from her meat and focused on Mr Elliott. He was older than his wife, perhaps forty or more. She didn’t like him as much as she liked Mrs Elliott.

‘My father intended the colonies to be my home, sir,’ she said.

He looked surprised, and Abigail felt surprised at herself too. Of course, she must return to England. There was nothing for her here. So why did the thought fill her with something that felt like dread? 

‘My dear Miss Ashe,’ Mrs Elliott said, ‘of course he did. He intended your home to be with him, as was natural, but…’

‘But the colonies are no place for a young lady alone,’ Mr Elliott broke in. ‘Surely your experiences here have taught you that? It is what your father would have wanted, I am in no doubt. And it is what your uncle will expect.’

He was right about both of those things. Abigail lowered her head. 

‘I understand,’ she said, quietly. ‘When am I to leave?’

‘Well, there are some arrangements to be made. It isn’t suitable that you should travel alone. But I have promised your uncle that you will depart as soon as we can find you a place on a ship with a suitable chaperone. I think it will be best, don’t you?’

She stared at him, hardly seeing him. ‘Yes, I suppose it will.’  


*

  
That night, she dreamt she was back on the _Fancy_.

Rough hands seized her, rough voices laughed over her. She fought, but there was no escaping them. Faces leered into hers, and in their eyes, she saw the truth. She was not a person. She was a prize. 

Then it merged into the prison cell in the fort. The pirate called Vane thrust pen and ink at her, except that his face kept merging with the captain of the _Fancy_.

‘You’re going to die, Abigail,’ he said. ‘You won’t survive this. How can you survive, silly, weak little girl? Eventually one of us will just decide to kill you, and there’ll be nothing you can do to stop us, with your soft little arms and your head full of stories and needlework.’

Only, was it him speaking, or was it her own voice in her head, telling her those things? 

And then Mr Elliott was there, hurrying, leading her down those endless tunnels away from the fort.

‘Come along, Miss Ashe,’ he said, not turning to look at her. ‘It is what your father would have wanted, I am in no doubt.’

He turned, but it wasn’t Mr Elliott. It was Papa.

‘You’ll be safe, Abigail,’ he said. ‘You can’t survive on your own, but I’ll always make sure you’re safe.’

_'But you didn’t! You didn’t!'_ She wasn’t sure whether she was screaming it out loud, or only in her head. It didn’t matter, because a hand took her elbow, and when she turned, she was looking at the bright fair hair and determined face of Miss Guthrie, clutching a flaming torch.

‘You’re no longer a hostage, Abigail,’ Miss Guthrie said. ‘You’re no longer a hostage.’ 

There was an iron gate between her and Miss Guthrie, though. A gate with a padlock. Abigail clutched at it, wrestling to open it, fingers tugging helplessly. She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t strong enough. 

_‘Please,’_ she sobbed. _‘Please help me!’_

‘Nobody’s coming to help you.’ The voice came from behind her, and it was the captain of the _Fancy_ again, his flat, gravelly voice. ‘Nobody’s coming to help you, little girl. It’s just you and me.’ 

And she woke with a gasp, her hand flinging out of her bed and knocking her candlestick over with a clatter. 

For a few seconds, she lay, gulping in air. A dream. Just a dream. She wasn’t a prisoner anymore. 

But Papa. Papa was dead, and she was alone, and nobody was coming to help her. Abigail curled onto her side, and sobs choked her, tears welling up for the first time. It wasn’t meant to be like this. This wasn’t meant to happen to her. 

When her sobs stilled, though, there was a new determination inside her. 

She had been weak and helpless when she’d been a prisoner. She’d thought she was going to die. But she hadn’t died. And now people wanted to decide everything for her again, as they always had, but she wasn’t that helpless child anymore. She wasn’t ever going to be that helpless child again. 

Her father had had money—where was that money now? Some of it ought to belong to her. She didn’t have the power or protection of the Governor of the Carolinas, but she did have money, and that was something. 

_What can I do now?_

It was the question that had been beating inside her mind ever since that first morning after the news had come. But now she had an answer: 

_Survive._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support so far for my first little effort in this fandom! I have a little bit more direction in my head for this story now, so it should go somewhere eventually. I'm sorry that it's not more shippy at the moment - It'll get there, I promise.
> 
> Warning: Mention of body desecration (NOT necrophilia) in this chapter.

One of the things that had to be arranged before she should sail for England was the burial of her father.

‘Everyone would understand if you didn’t go,’ Mrs Elliott said gently. ‘To return to Charles Town after what happened there—it’s more than anyone would ask of you. More than your father would ever have asked of you.’

The old Abigail would perhaps have acquiesced. Would have taken the easy, more comfortable route, and would never have faced a return to the place where her father had died. The new Abigail took a long breath.

‘It is my father’s funeral, Mrs Elliott. Of course, I must go.’

*

She had not prepared herself for the sight of Charles Town, though. As they sailed into the bay, Abigail’s breath caught in her chest. The harbour and the buildings around it were a smouldering ruin. How was it possible for a town to be reduced to this so fast? How was it possible that the kind, courteous man she had known on the _Revenge_ could have been responsible for this… this wanton destruction?

Mr Elliott accompanied her as they rowed ashore, and they were met at the harbour by a man, young and clean-shaven, but with a recent-looking dressed wound above his left brow, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Cooper. 

‘Welcome, Miss Ashe,’ he said stiffly, as he assisted her out of the boat. ‘I am very sorry for your loss. But if you will forgive me, I am not sure that returning to Charles Town was the best choice.’ He cast a disapproving look beyond her at Mr Elliott, leaving it in no doubt who he blamed for the choice. ‘It is not a place to bring a young lady at this time, sir.’

Mr Elliott ignored this. ‘Tell me, what is the state of the town, sir?' he asked. 'We of Savannah are eager to help in any way we can…’

Their voices continued, but Abigail stepped past them, staring at the tumbled stone and splintered wood of the harbour front. There were dark red stains here and there that she turned her eyes quickly away from. This was Charles Town. This was the place that should have been her home. What would have happened to her if her father had not sent her away? She could not believe that Captain Flint would willingly have seen her come to any harm, but she was not sure, after all, that she had ever really known the real Captain Flint. And would he have been able to protect her, even if he had wanted to?

A sentence caught her ear behind her. A question from Mr Elliott.

‘Any news about the pirates who did this?’

She turned back, in time to see Lieutenant Cooper’s mouth set into a grim line. 

‘Safely back in Nassau by now, I should think,’ he said. ‘We had neither the men nor the resources to give chase to a Man o’ War.’

Back in Nassau. The name of the place made Abigail’s stomach churn, and she turned away again.

‘Where is my father laid, Lieutenant?’ she asked. ‘I would like to see him.’

Cooper led them through the devastated town. Abigail tried not to look, but she could hardly help it. The bodies had been moved from the street, but she knew that many had died. Her father's was not the only funeral that would take place this week.

‘Perhaps, Miss Ashe, this may change your impression of pirates,’ the lieutenant said, as they walked.

Abigail glanced at him, startled. What did he know of that? In Savannah, everyone had assumed that she was simply a kidnapping victim, that she had known nothing but brutality at the hands of any of the pirates; to those people, there was no difference between the crew of the _Fancy_ and the crew of the _Revenge_. She had not imagined that it would be any different here.

‘And what do you suppose _my impression of pirates_ to be, sir?’ she asked.

‘Stories spread fast, I'm afraid, Miss Ashe. It’s well known that your testimony was used at the trial.’

‘My testimony?’ She stopped walking, unable to keep up her aloof distance any longer. ‘What do you mean? I gave no testimony!’

He also stopped, seeming surprised. ‘Your record of your time with them, Ma’am. The pirate captain, Vane, brought it to be used in Flint’s defence. I assumed you were aware.’

Once more, Abigail struggled to catch a breath. _Vane?_ Vane had been here with Flint? That made no sense. They had left Vane behind in Nassau, standing behind that gate under the fort. He was Flint's _enemy._ And when Lieutenant Cooper talked of the record of her time, did he mean her diary? But how could Vane have got his hands on that? 

‘Lieutenant,’ Mr Elliott broke in, ‘can you not see that you’re distressing Miss Ashe? Please try to remember what she’s been though! Let us have no more talk of that unpleasant day, or of any pirate trials.’

Abigail opened her mouth to protest, to say that no, she wanted to hear what had happened—she wanted answers to the questions spinning in her mind. But Mr Elliott had swept her on, ahead of the lieutenant, and she had no chance to ask any more.

Amid the ruins of the street, the governor’s house had somehow remained almost untouched, although covered with the dust of debris. Inside, the rooms were as they had been. Quiet and elegant, with the sun coming in through the windows and gleaming softly on the wooden floors. If she didn’t look out of those windows, Abigail could almost pretend that nothing had happened since she was last here.

But even then, she didn’t think she would ever be able to pretend she hadn’t heard the gunshot. Hadn’t seen with her own eyes the women scrubbing Lady Hamilton’s blood out of the floorboards. The whole dreadful thing had begun in this house, and it hadn’t been a pirate who had fired the first shot. 

Her father was laid out on his bed, and in death, he looked older than she had ever thought of him. Perhaps it was his paleness. Or perhaps the illusion of youth had been in the light behind his eyes, gone now that it was snuffed out. They must have cleaned and dressed the body; there was no blood to be seen, although she knew he had been found with a deadly stomach wound. 

Since that night when the tears had first come, she had wept for him several times, but now, looking down on him, everything inside her was still and quiet. She had loved him, she loved him still, but she had hardly known the man he’d been.

She found Mr Elliott in the parlour, poring over some of her father's papers, and partaking of a glass what looked like her father’s best French claret. 

‘Mr Elliott, do you know what they’ve done with Lady Hamilton’s body?’ Abigail asked, as she came in through the door.

He jumped at the sudden question, then looked at her, seeming perturbed. 

‘Lady Hamilton? You mean the woman who brought you here with the pirates? Well, no, no, I can’t say I do. I daresay she’s been buried by now, my dear, since she had no family to wait for.’ 

And that would mean thrown into a pauper’s grave or something similar. If she’d been buried at all. 

‘Can you enquire for me?’ she asked. ‘I… I should like to know. Lady Hamilton wasn’t a pirate—she was kind to me.’ 

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He waved a hand, already attending to the papers again. 'But don't concern yourself with it, my dear. It will have been taken care of.'

‘Thank you.’ But the words came out thinly, because Abigail, looking at his complacent face as he sipped the claret, was quite sure that he would not ask.

He didn’t care. He’d tell her what he thought she wanted to hear, but that didn’t mean it would be the truth. By dinner time, he would already have forgotten about it. The ground, already unsteady, rocked a little more beneath her feet. If she couldn’t trust Mr Elliott, whom could she trust? 

*

They buried him in the cemetery, amid a field of fresh graves. Lord Peter Ashe should have had a grand funeral, pomp and ceremony, a proper church service and a throng of people. But, aside from Abigail and Mr Elliott, it was only a handful of townsfolk, his personal servants and some naval men, including the lieutenant from earlier. The Charles Town people were watching her; she could feel their eyes on her. 

What were they thinking? ' _Stories spread fast_ ,' Lieutenant Cooper had said. Were they filled with pity, like her hosts in Savannah? Or were they thinking darker things about the girl who had brought the pirates to their doors?

‘He must have a stone,’ Abigail said to Mr Elliott, as they stood together by the side of the grave. 

‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Elliott said, agreeably. ‘Would you like me to enquire of a stonemason?’ 

Abigail nodded. At least that was one enquiry she hoped she could trust him to make on her behalf. 

‘Please. If you would. But I should like to compose the words for the stone myself.’ 

What they would be, she had no idea. 

A soft wind was blowing from the east as they left the cemetery, bringing with it the salt air of the sea. Ahead of her, she saw Lieutenant Cooper with some of his fellow-officers. Mr Elliott was speaking with a Charles Town merchant a few steps behind, and Abigail increased her pace to catch up with the lieutenant. Perhaps it was not decorous of her, but she had questions she wanted to put to him, away from the ears of Mr Elliott. 

‘Lieutenant Cooper!’ 

He turned, and seemed surprised, but he paused to wait for her. 

‘Miss Ashe! How are you…?’ 

She had no time or appetite for pleasantries. 

‘Lieutenant, what did you mean when you said that my testimony was used at the trial?’ 

A guarded expression came over his face. ‘I should not have spoken so freely. I apologise, Ma’am.’ 

‘You were referring to the journal I kept on board ship, between Nassau and here, were you not? How did it come to be used? Did my father read it?’ _And what did he say?_

‘I don’t know all the details, Miss Ashe. All I know is that when Flint’s trial was underway, Vane walked into the centre of Charles Town and declared that he wished to speak for Flint. He said that he had your written word that Flint and his crew had not kidnapped you, but rescued you, and that they had treated you kindly. He presented the book to the judge, who immediately retired with your father. But it was a delay, nothing more. I don’t know what you’d written, but it did the pirates little good except in buying some time. Vane was shackled beside Flint by the time the attack began.’ 

He hesitated, then went on. ‘I should not have spoken of it earlier. I did not mean to make light of your experiences, or to suggest you had sympathies with the pirates. But you should know that it isn’t so rare. For a prisoner—helpless, disoriented, at the mercy of their captor—to become confused. For them to begin to feel they understand their enemy, or to see them through a twisted glass. I have seen it in grown men and soldiers. I only hoped that seeing what happened here with your own eyes would have lifted any such delusion from your mind, if it existed.’ 

‘Thank you, Lieutenant. I understand,’ she said, forcing the words out through her constricted throat. 

And she did understand. She understood all too well. Her words had been used by the pirates. Perhaps she had even been encouraged to write them deliberately. Vane and Flint were in league—what other explanation could there be? They had staged the entire thing, and Vane had played the part of the wicked pirate—at least he hadn’t had to pretend very much, she thought, bitterly—allowing Flint to pose as her saviour and win her trust. 

Then they had used her diary to delay the trial, to distract the judge and her father so that they could get into position to destroy the town. It was so obvious, and she had been naïve enough to fall for it. Naïve enough to _help_ them. She had thought the pirates were the ones walking into danger by entering Charles Town, and now Papa was dead, and it was partly her fault. The knowledge was a knife twisting inside her. 

But Lady Hamilton? She could not have been part of it. She would never have gone along with it. Abigail still didn’t know what had gone on in that dining room, or why Lady Hamilton had been shot, but she would not believe that of her. Had she been a sacrifice for the pirates’ plan? Or had her death been a terrible mistake that not even Flint had predicted? 

‘Do you know what was done with Lady Hamilton’s body?’ she asked the lieutenant, keeping her voice almost steady by a supreme effort. 

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Lady Hamilton…? I don’t know, I’m afraid, Miss Ashe. There were… Well, there were many bodies recovered from the street that day,’ he finished, quietly. 

‘Have they been buried?’ 

‘Some of them. Those that can be identified are being released to their families, if they’re townsfolk. Our men will have a naval burial. This is a week of many funerals, Miss Ashe.' He hesitated, then went on, his voice even lower. 'I lost a man I counted as a friend.’ 

She had dismissed the lieutenant when she first met him as just another grim-faced, unsympathetic officer. But she thought that perhaps she had been wrong. 

‘I’m sorry, lieutenant,’ she said, softly. 

His lips moved into something resembling a smile. 

‘That’s life in the Navy, Miss Ashe. We understand the risks. Even your father understood the risk of his position, if you’ll forgive me saying it. It’s the ordinary people of this town who should never have had to suffer like this. That is the true evil of pirates. They don’t see any difference between killing armed men and killing innocent women and children. We are all the same to them.’ 

Abigail was silent for a moment. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they were all right. 

‘I would like to find Lady Hamilton’s body, if I can,’ she said, at last. ‘If it is still to be found. She didn’t deserve this either. And she should have a proper burial.’ 

He looked at her, and his mouth opened slightly. For a moment, she thought he was going to offer meaningless platitudes like Mr Elliott. Then he seemed to change his mind and nodded. 

‘I will see what I can find out for you, Miss Ashe.’ 

She believed him as she had not believed Mr Elliott. 

*

She shut herself in her room when they returned to the house, removed her shoes and sat down on her bed. The afternoon had been far more exhausting than she had realised, and her fingers trembled slightly with pent-up tension.

Her room. Her bed. They should have been hers, were hers for the moment, but they wouldn’t continue to be hers. There would have to be a new governor, who would live in the governor’s house, and Abigail would be on her way back to England. 

She blinked back the tears that prickled behind her eyelids. If she was to survive, she must be brave. Even in England, she would have to be brave. London talked. Everyone would know what had happened to her, and her reputation would be in tatters, no matter that her virtue was still intact. Nobody would really believe that, after the weeks she had spent with the pirates. Abigail had never been the sort of girl people talked about, but she certainly was now.

There was a tap at the door, and Abigail took a deep breath. 

’Yes? Who is it?’ 

The door cracked open, and a small, round, dark face appeared. 

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. Mr Elliott sent me to see if you need anything.’ 

Abigail shook her head, then changed her mind. 

‘A cup of water, please. That’s all.’ 

When the girl brought the water, Abigail took it and looked at the girl with a little more interest. She had seen her before, coming and going from the kitchen.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Chloe, Ma’am.’ 

The girl had stepped back after giving her the cup, and kept her eyes on the floor.

‘Thank you, Chloe.’ Abigail hesitated for a moment, then went on. ‘How long have you been employed by my father?’ 

Chloe gave a quick darting look up, then lowered her eyes again. 

‘Lord Ashe bought me around five years ago, Ma’am.’ 

‘Bought you?’ The shock of the word brought Abigail’s chin jerking up. ‘You’re a… a slave?’ 

The small face lifted at the question, eyes wide and startled and a little frightened. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ 

Abigail closed her eyes again. Was there no end to her naivety? Everyone knew that the colonies relied on the trade in slaves. She should have known that her father would own them. It was something she’d given no thought to. But here was this girl in front of her, and yes, she was just a girl, younger than Abigail, so she must have been bought as a child. How could anyone see her as property when she was visibly, demonstrably, as human as Abigail herself? 

But if Chloe had belonged to Abigail’s father, then surely that meant that by law, she now belonged to Abigail. The house had been given to him, part of his role as governor, but the things he had bought with his own money, those were now hers. An intolerable thought.

‘I won’t have it!’ she said, her voice coming sudden and loud out of the pause. ‘I won’t keep any man or woman a prisoner. I won’t keep slaves.’ 

Fear and worry flickered in the girl's brown eyes, but she said nothing. Abigail stared at her. 

‘Do you understand me? Are you not happy? Do you not want to be free?’ 

Nothing here worked as she expected it to work; she did not understand the rules, to be sure. But even so, she could not imagine why a slave would want to remain a slave. 

Chloe's forehead creased. ‘Free, Ma’am?’ 

‘Yes,’ Abigail said. ‘Do you not hear what I’m saying? You are free. From this moment. I don’t own you—I have never owned you, for God gave no man or woman the right to own another.’

She had somehow found herself on her feet, agitation surging through her. Rules? She didn’t care to learn their _rules._ Rules that were forged in England and then shackled onto a land that was too large, too wild for them. 

Chloe laughed. It was an unexpected sound, a sudden, warm ripple that seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised Abigail. 

‘I… I’m sorry. I thought you meant only to sell me. But…’ 

‘What good would that do? Here.’ Abigail picked up her outdoor things from a chair and felt in her pocket for the few coins that were there. She took them and pressed them into Chloe’s hands, which were even smaller than her own. ‘For your service. It’s not much, but it’s all I have at the moment.’ 

She wasn’t sure what she was offering. If she was going back to England, she could hardly take Chloe with her, could she? 

Chloe was staring at the money in her hand as if it might vanish at any moment. 

‘Ma’am… thank you, but…’ she whispered. 

Abigail shook her head, turning away. ‘There’s nothing to thank me for. It’s only a tiny part of what you are owed. I can’t give you back the things you must have lost through all these years. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so. I shall speak with Mr Elliott, though, and if you would rather remain in my employment, you shall have a wage.’ 

She hadn’t expected to feel so strongly about the matter. But she remembered the feeling of being bound. Of being trapped. Of being seen as something less than human, just a valuable item to be bartered. It had only been a few weeks for her, but for Chloe, it was her whole life. 

‘If you please, Ma’am, I have no other place to go to,’ Chloe said. ‘While you remain here, I will work for you. After that…’

‘After that, I will help you make arrangements.’ How she would do that, Abigail had no idea. She couldn’t even make arrangements for herself. ‘For now, I will see that you’re paid.’ 

‘I... Thank you, Ma’am. Truly.' The girl still looked stunned, as if she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. ‘Is… is there anything else I can do for you?’ 

‘No, not at the moment, except please tell Mr Elliott that I want to rest, and ask that I’m not disturbed.’ Abigail sat down on the bed again. All she wanted was to curl up and sleep for a week, block out the world and everything in it. ‘Oh, but Chloe—if a man called Lieutenant Cooper sends any kind of message, can you bring it straight to me, without bothering Mr Elliott? Don’t worry about disturbing me for that.’ 

‘Yes, of course, Ma’am.’ Chloe bobbed a curtsy and slipped away through the door. 

Abigail must have fallen asleep, because by the time another knocking on her door made her start up, the day was fading, and the room was half-dark. She sat up hurriedly and pushed her hair out of her face. How long had she been asleep? Nobody had called her for dinner. 

’Ma’am?’ The door opened, and Chloe appeared again. ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to wake you, but Lieutenant Cooper is downstairs asking for you, and you said…’ 

‘He’s here?’ Abigail scrambled to her feet.

She had been right to believe that he would do something about her request, but what would bring him to her door, instead of sending word? Her dress was creased, and her hair must be wild, but there was no time to do anything about that. Something told her that Mr Elliott would disapprove of this entire scheme, so she must be quick and quiet. She padded over to the door in her stocking feet.

‘Where is Mr Elliott?’ 

‘In the parlour, Ma’am. Do you want him?’ 

‘No. No, it’s all right. I’ll go down to Lieutenant Cooper.’ 

Chloe nodded. ‘He’s at the back door, Ma’am.’ 

Abigail slipped down the back stairs, with Chloe behind her. The lieutenant was waiting outside in the dusk, his hat pulled low over his face. 

‘Lieutenant? Do you have news?’ 

He glanced swiftly around, then turned to her. 

‘I do. I asked some questions, and it wasn’t hard to get people talking about the pirate woman, though most of them didn’t know her name.’ 

‘And do you know? Do you know what happened to her?’ Abigail asked in a low voice, unsure whether she wanted to hear the answer. 

Under the brim of his hat, his mouth was unsmiling. 

‘I’m afraid so, Miss Ashe. They didn’t know her name, but they knew she’d come here with Flint, and they weren’t inclined to be kind. I don’t want to upset you with the details…’ 

Abigail took a shaky breath. ‘I spent several weeks as the prisoner of pirates, sir. I am not so delicate as you think.’ 

If she said it out loud, it might become true. 

He looked at her for a long moment, his expression impossible to read. 

‘They had strung her body up over the harbour. Stripped her clothes off. Aside from that, they mostly just threw things at her, so I suppose it could have been worse.’ 

_Could it?_ Abigail felt sick. She didn’t want to imagine what worse things he thought could have happened. Lady Hamilton, so kind and dignified and beautiful, to come to such a vile end. 

And in Abigail’s mind was not only the Lady Hamilton into whose arms she had fallen after her escape from the fort, but the Lady Hamilton whose face and laughing voice she remembered from her mother’s drawing room. What would Mama say if she knew what these people, these so-called _civilised_ people, had done? 

‘Where is she?’ she asked. ‘Is she… is she still there?’ 

He hesitated. ‘No. I had her cut down. She is here.’ 

He gestured along the path that led from the main street to the back of the house. A cart rested there, and on it a long shape, shrouded in sacking cloth. Abigail’s heart seemed to still for a moment. 

‘That’s her?’ 

Her head swam, but she caught the doorframe. Something pulsed inside her, something that had been simmering under the surface since the day Lady Hamilton had been shot and nothing had been done about it. Something white hot and uncontrollable that surged through her blood at the sight of that shape on the cart. How dare they do this? How _dare_ they? 

Abigail turned on her stockinged heel, and marched back through the kitchen, ignoring the voices of Chloe and the lieutenant calling after her. The people of Charles Town called themselves civilised. They didn’t know what civilisation _meant_. 

She was almost running as she reached the door to the street and flung it open. The day was nearly over. Men were packing away tools where they had been working on a half-destroyed house opposite. Beside it, a family huddled on a smoke-blackened veranda, but further down, the tavern was open for business, despite the burnt timbers and the gaping hole in its roof. Abigail cared for none of it. 

‘You’re animals!’ she cried, advancing into the street, heedless of the broken debris beneath her feet. ‘ _Animals!_ How dare you? How dare you _desecrate_ her? No wonder they hate you! No wonder!’ 

A door slammed inside the house; voices and hurried footsteps sounded behind her. 

‘Miss Ashe!’ said Mr Elliott’s horrified voice. ‘Miss Ashe, I must insist you stop this!’ 

‘You deserved it!’ Tears pushed at her eyes, and she wasn’t sure who she was even shouting at anymore, but _somebody_ had to be to blame. ‘You’re no better than them! No better!’ 

‘What are you doing back here?’ shouted a man from the wrecked building. ‘You brought them here, you pirate whore!’ 

It was like a stinging blow to the face, and she could only gasp. She had never been called a word like that.

‘Ma’am?’ 

A hesitant hand touched her elbow. Chloe was there, tugging her back towards the house. 

With a rush of breath, the fight went out of Abigail, reality flooding back. She was standing in the street with no shoes on. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Around her were angry, hostile faces. What had she done? 

She stumbled backwards, and Chloe—although she was smaller and slighter than Abigail—caught her around the waist and supported her. 

‘Miss Ashe!’ Mr Elliot was still in the doorway. ‘Come inside at once! You, girl! Get her inside!’ 

‘Come on, Ma’am,’ Chloe whispered. ‘It’s all right. Just come in with me, and it’ll be all right.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be playing slightly fast and loose with a certain small aspect of historical fact over the next chapter or two, but considering that the colony of Georgia and the city of Savannah weren't established until 1732 anyway, I think I can get away with it, right? ;)
> 
> This chapter includes some (mild) period-typical homophobia, along the 'homosexuality is a sin' lines.

‘You know, I have come to realise something in the last few days,’ Abigail said, as she sat at the writing desk in her room, staring out at the glaring sun. She turned and twisted herself, so that she could see Chloe as the girl folded Abigail’s clothes on the bed and packed them away for her return to Savannah. ‘Sometimes, there is nobody coming to help or rescue us.’

‘That’s true enough, Miss Abigail.’ Chloe nodded, sagely.

Chloe had attached herself to Abigail as some sort of personal maid without being asked, and Abigail had been glad to let her. She had refused to back down until Mr Elliott agreed to let her pay Chloe—and every other slave who had been owned by her father—the same wage as any other servant, and Abigail was grateful to have the girl there, for her companionship as much as for her work.

‘I used to think that the world was mostly a good place. That most people were kind, and that truth and justice would always prevail in the end,’ Abigail went on, then sighed. ‘I suppose I must seem hopelessly naïve to you, don’t I?’

‘No, Miss.’ Chloe rolled a pair of Abigail’s stockings. ‘Only lucky.’

It was a strange thought, after everything that had happened over the last few weeks—that she was _lucky_. But up to now, she supposed she had been. At home in England, she had often thought her life dull, and wished for excitement and adventure. Now she longed for that dullness.

‘How old are you, Chloe?’ she asked, after a moment.

‘I don’t know for sure, Miss Abigail. I think fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts.’

Abigail was not yet eighteen, but Chloe was at least two years younger than her. And she had already been sold at least once. Sold away from any family she might have had. Abigail wanted to ask about Chloe’s family, but she felt it would be insensitive. After all, they’d only met two days ago, even though Abigail was starting to feel that Chloe and Lieutenant Cooper were the only true friends she had in the New World.

No, that wasn’t fair. Mrs Elliott was sweet, and even Mr Elliott had been kind in his own way—although he had been very cross ever since what he called her ‘spectacle in the street’. Lieutenant Cooper had had to post extra guards around the house, in case anyone took it upon themselves to enact some revenge.

Abigail sighed again. ‘Well, I’ve finished with these epitaphs. I don’t think they’re very good.’

People had always told Abigail that she had a way with words. But in this case, her imagination seemed to have dried up. An epitaph was so frighteningly final. Besides, she knew almost nothing about Lady Hamilton to write—and scarcely more about her own father.

 

‘Here lies the body of Lord Peter Ashe

Governor of the Province of Carolina

Born 1665

Died 1715 in the course of his duties

Dearly beloved father

Now at rest in Heaven’

 

It felt so very bare and functional, but she couldn’t think of what else to put; besides, one didn’t write personal messages on gravestones. The other epitaph said simply:

 

‘Here lies Lady Miranda Hamilton

Late of London and New Providence Island

Died 1715

Loved and dearly remembered’

 

It was all she could do. She did not know when or where Lady Hamilton had been born. At least she was laid in a proper graveyard—the other side of it from where they had buried Abigail’s father. And the final sentence was true; Abigail would remember her dearly, and she was quite sure that Mr McGraw, wherever he was now, had loved Lady Hamilton.

‘I wish I knew what went wrong,’ she said, half to herself, staring at the words she’d written. ‘I wish I knew why she’d died.’

Chloe made a small sound, and something in it made Abigail turn around again. The girl was biting her lip.

Abigail studied her face for a moment. ‘Chloe, do you know something?’

‘I wasn’t trying to listen, Miss Abigail!' Chloe clutched her hands together in front of her as the words bubbled out. ‘I couldn’t help it—I was in the service passage, and I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late, and I wouldn’t ever have said anything to anyone, I swear it!’

‘Chloe!’ Abigail stood up and crossed the room, taking the girl’s hands in hers. ‘I don’t care about any of that! But please—if you heard what happened, please tell me! Nothing will happen to you for it, I’ll make sure of that.’

Chloe looked up at her, eyes wide. ‘I… I don’t want to cause no trouble.’

‘I think there’s plenty of trouble here already, wouldn’t you say?’ Abigail said. ‘And you didn’t make any of it. Come, Chloe.’ She pushed her shifts to one side and pulled Chloe to sit the bed. ‘Tell me what happened. Don’t spare me. I already suspect that my father… may have had some part in it.’

‘It was about the clock,’ Chloe began slowly. ‘The big clock. Lady Hamilton, she said it came from her house in London. She wanted to know how it came to be here.’

Abigail stared at her. ‘She thought my father stole a _clock_?’

‘Not stole it, Miss. The Master said it was a gift. I… I didn’t understand all that was said, but he said it was a gift from someone called… I don’t recall the first name, but someone called Hamilton, so I suppose he was a relation of Lady Hamilton. And Lady Hamilton was angry. _Very_ angry. She said…’ Chloe stumbled, trying to get the words right. ‘She said the Master—your father—had betrayed them, her and the pirate gentleman, and someone called Thomas. She said he’d caused all their troubles, Miss. Only she said it much stronger than that. I don’t know what troubles Lady Hamilton had, but I think they were bad ones, from the way she talked.’

‘Yes, so do I,’ Abigail said, softly. ‘And what did my father say? Did he deny it?’

There was a long pause before Chloe spoke in a very low voice. ‘No, Miss. I’m sorry, but he… he admitted it was true. Least, I think so. He said the man—Alfred! That was the name! Lord Alfred Hamilton. Your father said that Lord Hamilton was going to ruin your family, if your father didn’t help him.’

 _Alfred Hamilton._ The man her father had told her had been murdered by Captain Flint. The story that later, after she had met Captain Flint, she had wondered if perhaps her father had twisted to his own purpose. Or only told a part of. Could she have been right? Was there something far deeper at work here than merely Papa’s desire to see a lawful society in the colonies?

‘Help him do what?’ Abigail asked, forcing the words out.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she had to—she _had_ to. The truth was too important. 

‘I don’t exactly know, Miss. I didn’t understand. It was something about the gentleman—the pirate gentleman—and the navy turning against him. And this man, Thomas, and something about how he died in a cold, dark place.’ 

Yes, that was the rumour Abigail had heard. She had been too young to be told anything—not that they’d tell her that kind of thing, even now, she thought with bitterness—but she had heard the whispers. That Thomas Hamilton had died in Bedlam. She’d hardly known what it meant. Now she considered Alfred Hamilton and wondered how a father could ever commit his son to such a place, no matter how unwell that son was. 

She had parts of the story. Some pieces were coming clear, but she was frustratingly lacking the whole. It all fitted together somehow, it had to. But what was her father’s role in it all? And where did Mr McGraw fit in? 

‘After that,’ Chloe went on, as the pause stretched, ‘Lady Hamilton started shouting.’ She shivered, as if the memory was unpleasant. ‘She said… she said she wanted the town to burn. And… and other things. Then the colonel…’ 

‘Yes. I know what the Colonel did,’ Abigail said. She slipped an arm around Chloe’s thin shoulders. ‘Thank you. Thank you for telling me.’ 

Chloe went rigid at Abigail’s touch, then slowly relaxed a little, although she was still tense. She peered up at Abigail with big, brown eyes. 

‘What are you going to do, Miss?’ 

‘I don’t know yet,’ Abigail said. ‘I need… I need to think.’ 

But before she could do anything—or decide to do nothing—she needed to know the truth. And there were only two people who could tell her that. One was Mr McGraw, but he was far out of Abigail’s reach. The other was Abigail’s father. 

* 

His papers were all in his desk, and on the bookshelf behind it. It was a daunting task to search, but after all, she told herself, there was no reason why she shouldn’t. She had been leaving all that side of things to Mr Elliott and the lawyer, and all they’d told her were the terms of her own inheritance—a generous yearly sum until she turned twenty-one, or until she got married, when she would receive the rest of it—but she had every right to look at his things herself if she chose to. And now she did choose. 

It took her several hours, and she was starting to give up hope. If he had done something wrong, why would he keep evidence of it? No, her father kept everything; he was meticulous. But she had no reason to suppose that there had been any written evidence in the first place, or that she would even recognise it if she found it. 

She had gone through pages of dull accounts and letters from dull men, none of whom were called Hamilton, and all of which were dated long after Papa had come to Carolina, which was too late to be useful. She had found the letters that she herself had written to her father, all tucked together into one small drawer, and she ran her fingers over them with a sad smile, looking at the childish handwriting on the early ones. She had missed him so terribly at first. She would keep these, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever read them. Her own letters from him had disappeared along with the rest of her belongings on the _Good Fortune_. 

Then, at the very back of a drawer, she came upon a small, black, metal box. It was locked, but the key was in the lock. Clearly her father had not been expecting anyone to be going through his things. Either that, or perhaps he had opened it recently. 

Abigail opened the box and lifted out the bundle of paper. Letters, addressed to her father. One to this house, here in Charles Town, the others to her father’s old home in London. Abigail’s heart beat a little quicker and she turned the most recent one over. The name at the bottom made her ribs constrict. 

_Lord A. Hamilton_

Abigail read it. It told her nothing, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. It was only the news that Lord Alfred was intending to travel to Charles Town, and Abigail had already known that. That was the journey that had ended in his death. 

But what of the other letters? 

Abigail put the first aside and picked up the next. She read it, then read it again, then read the next one and tried to take in what she was reading. Nausea rose up inside her, and her head spun. What had she found? 

What had Papa _done_? 

Abigail removed the box of letters, replacing everything else as best she could. It wouldn’t be noticed; she doubted that either Mr Elliott or the lawyer were aware that the letters existed, and even if they were, they had no right to stop her taking the box. 

And she did not think she wanted anyone else to read those letters. Not just yet. 

Chloe met her at the door of her room. ‘Miss, Mr Elliott has been looking for you. He asked me where you were.’ 

There was a question in Chloe’s eyes, though she didn’t ask. She was still too used to the habits required of a slave. 

Abigail pushed the door open and entered the room, with Chloe behind her. She said nothing for a moment, but laid the box down on her writing desk and gazed at it. That box held the truth she had been seeking. And now she had found it, she was going to have to do something about it—she just didn’t know what. 

‘Chloe,’ she said, turning around. ‘What should we do when someone has done something unforgiveable?’ 

Chloe’s eyes were puzzled, but her voice was sure, as if the matter was simple. ‘Why, Miss, I suppose that we should not forgive them.’ 

* 

The number of thing that Abigail knew for certain seemed to have reduced drastically since she had left England. Good and evil, men and monsters, God-fearing and sinful, they’d all been neatly boxed and easy to recognise, or so she’d always been led to believe. 

She had no idea whether the things that her father had written about Lord Hamilton and Mr McGraw were true or not. Abigail had been brought up by people who called themselves progressives, so she was aware that such proclivities existed. If the claim was true, that was a sin—so much, Abigail was sure of, but as for anything more than that... 

_He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her._ The bible said that. She might have been more shocked by the allegations a few months ago, but now, Abigail was very little concerned with sins that seemed to do no harm to anyone except those committing them. It was a sin that seemed terribly slight compared to some of the things she had seen since the beginning of her journey. Terribly slight, indeed, compared to the sin of betraying one’s friends. 

What she was concerned with was the truth. Justice towards those who had been shown none. Those who were still suffering from the things that had been done to them. 

Those she might have the power to help, if only she could think of a way. 

They travelled back to Savannah by carriage. News had reached them of a vicious pirate raid just down the coast—they said it was Captain Flint, and Abigail desperately hoped that that wasn’t true, while suspecting in her heart that it was—and Mr Elliott had deemed it too much of a risk. Chloe travelled with them, by her own volition. Georgia was a free colony, so there was no risk there of her being forced back into slavery. 

Mr Elliott, sitting opposite them, fell asleep soon into the journey and began to snore gently. Abigail stared out of the window at the still-unfamiliar countryside rolling past. The road was so rutted that she didn’t know how he could sleep, with all the jolting up and down of the carriage. 

‘Are you feeling quite all right, Miss?’ Chloe ventured, after they had sat in silence for a time. 

Abigail turned to her with eyes that hardly saw her at first. 

'What? Oh. Oh, yes, I’m quite well. Only thinking.’ 

She was glad that Chloe was getting bolder. A little more confident that she could speak to Abigail without any risk of a harsh word or a blow. She still didn’t do it in front of Mr Elliott. Abigail thought a little longer, then made up her mind. 

‘Chloe, if I tell you something, can I trust you?’ 

Chloe’s eyes gleamed, and Abigail thought it was with the prospect of a secret. She almost smiled. She’d been just the same when she was fifteen. 

‘Miss, I won’t tell nobody, I swear it.’ 

Mrs Raymond, who had instructed Abigail in grammar, would have pointed out that ‘won’t tell nobody’ meant the same as ‘will tell somebody,’ but mercifully, Abigail never had to see Mrs Raymond again. 

‘I made a discovery in my father’s desk. A discovery that changes everything about… Well, about my arrival here, and the attack on Charles Town, and Lady Hamilton’s death, and… everything. I believe I understand why Lady Hamilton was angry with my father—I believe that he wronged her and Mr McGraw terribly. I do not excuse the attack on Charles Town—I cannot excuse that, but…’ 

'The pirates freed a cage of slaves.’ Chloe made the statement quietly, with no obvious emotion. 

Abigail stopped in her tracks. ‘Did they? I didn’t know that.’ 

‘Well, it’s true. They didn’t have to, but they did. Your Mr McGraw broke the cage open.’ 

Men and monsters. Was there truly _any_ good way to tell the difference? 

‘I’m sorry for you about your father, Miss, I am truly. But aside from that, I got no reason to cry over Charles Town being brought down. That’s all I’m trying to say.’ Chloe looked down at her hands. 

And it seemed quite obvious when Chloe put it like that, but it had never occurred to Abigail to think in those terms. 

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.’ 

‘What do you mean to do, Miss? About the thing you’ve found?’ Chloe asked, after a pause. 

‘I want to find someone who prints the news in Savannah,’ Abigail said, her heart speeding up as she said it out loud. Her plan had taken shape slowly over the past twelve hours, and she knew what she meant to do now. Whether it would work as she wanted, she had no idea. ‘But I don’t want the Elliotts to know what I’m doing. When we get there, do you think you can make enquiries? From the servants, or from someone working on the street, perhaps?’ 

Chloe’s smile flashed out. ‘Of course, Miss. I can do that.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more to Abigail's plan than meets the eye, in case anyone is screaming in horror at what they think she's going to do. And I'm officially changing my tags because this is 100% going to be canon divergent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear you're going to get some pirates coming into this story soon. Not this chapter, but. Soon. X

‘This way, Miss!’ Chloe took Abigail’s arm and steered her down a passageway between two houses.

Savannah was busy and bustling, and they slipped through the throngs unnoticed. It was strange to be so invisible; in London, if Abigail had gone out walking with a chaperone, she had been treated with respect and deference. People stepped aside and touched their hats for a well-dressed young lady, but not for a shabby, bare-headed girl whose skirts trailed raggedly in the dust. 

And that was the point. Abigail’s face was not known in Savannah; she had hardly stepped outside the Elliotts’ house since she’d been there. She had instructed Chloe to bring her clothes that would not attract attention, for she didn’t want to be noticed or recognised. In some ways, it was disconcerting. People passed so close their shoulders brushed hers, scarcely sparing her a glance. Others—men—looked at her _too_ closely, in a way they wouldn’t have dared do so openly if she looked like a daughter of a governor. 

It was also the greatest sense of freedom she had ever had. She was outside without a chaperone—well, except Chloe, but she hardly counted. She was unrecognised, anonymous. Nobody looked at her and thought, ‘there goes Miss Abigail Ashe, Lord Peter’s daughter’. She could be anybody she wanted to be. 

Chloe halted outside a small, brick building, with a sign hanging outside it that read, _‘The Georgia Gazette’_. 

‘Here it is, Miss,’ she whispered, close by Abigail’s side. 

Abigail looked down at her. 

‘Thank you, Chloe. And you think he’ll be willing to hear what we say?’ 

Chloe smiled, and her eyes danced as if she had a secret. ‘I think so, Miss.’ 

Abigail took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Inside, the little shop was dark, lit only by the windows facing onto the street. She blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the lack of light. Some kind of large, wooden frame stood in the middle of the room, an array of pages lay in rows on a table by the window, and stairs disappeared up to a second floor. There was no sign of any human activity. 

‘Hello?’ Abigail called, uncertainly. 

A door at the back of the room flew open, and Abigail blinked. A small girl stood in the doorway, no more than seven or eight years old, her dark hair tumbling in two untidy braids over her shoulders. 

‘Oh,’ Abigail said. ‘I’m sorry. I was…’ 

The girl marched over to the stairs and craned her neck upwards, leaning on the banister. ‘Ma!’ she called, loudly. ‘Two ladies are here!’ 

Footsteps sounded above, and a moment later a woman descended the stairs. She was short and broad, as fair as the child was dark, and her skirt had ink stains down the front. 

‘Good morning. How can I help you?’ she asked, as she reached the bottom, then glanced at Chloe, recognition coming into her eyes. ‘Ah. You're the lass who was here yesterday, to ask if I would print your employer’s story.’ Her eyes drifted to Abigail. ‘This wasn’t quite how I imagined your employer looking.’ 

The woman spoke with a faint trace of a Scottish accent, in a voice that was friendly enough. Abigail took hold of her courage and smiled. 

‘Well, you aren’t quite how I imagined the editor and proprietor of the _Georgia Gazette_ would look either.’ 

The woman stared at her for a moment, then laughed, her blue eyes creasing with good humour. ‘A fair point.’ She held out her hand. ‘Aye, I’m Isobel McDermott, and I print the _Gazette_. You may call me Isobel—most folk do.’ 

Abigail placed her hand into Isobel McDermott’s much larger one, and found it shaken firmly. 

‘I’m Sarah Carlisle,’ she said. The name was stolen from one of her schoolfriends, but Sarah was far away, and would never know or mind that her name was being misused. ‘And this is Chloe, but you already met her yesterday.’ 

The woman nodded. ‘And this,’ she said, gesturing at the little, dark girl, ‘is my daughter, Biddy. Now, Miss Carlisle—I assume it is Miss, by the way, or am I wrong?—why don’t you come and sit down and explain what this is all about, because you have my curiosity running high. Will you take tea?’ 

Abigail found herself sitting down at a table, from which Isobel McDermott had cleared several piles of paper, Chloe beside her, being served tea as if she they were sitting in a society drawing room. To be sure, the tea cups were cracked and mismatched, but a plate of crumbly cake was produced, and it was all so ordinary that she almost forgot why she’d come. The child, Biddy, was given a piece of cake on a plate and told to take it upstairs with her. 

‘Well, Miss Carlisle,’ Isobel said. ‘How about you start by telling me who you are and where you come from, because your clothes say servant lass, but your voice very much does not.’ 

Abigail could feel her face warming up and wished she did not have to lie. However, she had prepared her story. 

‘I’ve just lately arrived from England,’ she said. ‘There’s not a great deal to tell you about me. My father was a gentleman, but he… he fell on hard times. He’s dead now. I’m here for a fresh start, that’s all. I was living in Charles Town, but the town was attacked…’ 

‘Aye.’ Isobel looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I know about Charles Town, of course. Not a nice start to your time in the colonies.’ 

‘No,’ Abigail agreed. If Isobel only knew how true that was! But she had resolved to say as little about her personal circumstances as she could. ‘Can you tell me how widely the _Georgia Gazette_ is distributed?’ she asked hurriedly.

Isobel tilted her head, looking surprised by the question. ‘As widely as I can get it distributed. Folk want to hear the news, even if it’s out of date sometimes. I print Savannah news, of course, but also news from the rest of Georgia, from the other colonies, news from England, whatever I can find out. I get it from the ships that dock here and the people who come to town from inland. Charles Town filled up a whole edition; that was popular. It goes out throughout Georgia, and into the neighbouring colonies and the islands. Why do you ask?’ 

Abigail set her jaw and tried to calm her racing heart. This was the moment she had steeled herself for. 

‘I have news I want to print. News I think should be widely known. It is about the attack on Charles Town, but more particularly about something that happened before the attack. The thing that _led_ to the attack. There was a woman who was killed. Murdered in the governor’s own house, by an officer called Colonel Rhett. Nobody seems to care but me, but I think it should be known.’ 

For a moment, there was a silence in the little room. Chloe, sitting beside Abigail with her mouth full of cake, chewed slowly, her eyes moving between Isobel and Abigail. 

‘That’s quite the allegation,’ Isobel said, at last. ‘Who was the woman? And how do you know about this?’ 

This was the trickiest part. Revealing enough information without giving away who she was. 

‘Chloe was a witness to it. She saw Colonel Rhett shoot Lady Hamilton in the head.’ 

Chloe swallowed her mouthful. ‘I saw what happened, Ma’am. And heard it too. One shot was all it took. She was right in the middle of speaking, and bang! That was it.’ 

Abigail winced at the image that Chloe's description created, but she pushed on.

'And I saw the... the aftermath. I saw Lady Hamilton's body, and Colonel Rhett still holding the gun. There is no doubt about what happened. My... the governor even acknowledged it.' 

It was a gamble to admit to her own presence. Two witnesses were much better than only one, but if Isobel McDermott asked why Abigail had been in the governor’s house to witness anything, she wasn’t sure she had a good enough story. 

Isobel leaned back in her chair, and surveyed them both, her face both sharp and thoughtful. 

‘Lady Hamilton, you say? In the stories I heard, Lady Hamilton was a pirate, who tried to kill the governor. Are you telling me that's not the case?’ 

Abigail swallowed. Even now, even with all she knew, she felt like a traitor to her father. But if he had done the right thing in the first place, she wouldn’t need to do this. If he had done the right thing, he could be still alive today. 

‘Yes, I am telling you that. I believe that the stories being told about what happened in Charles Town are lies. Lady Hamilton didn’t go there to kill m… the governor. She didn’t _try_ to kill him—Chloe will tell you that. She and her companion…’ 

‘By 'companion'’ Isobel broke in, 'you mean the notorious pirate, Captain Flint?' 

‘I mean the man known to many as James Flint, yes. But he and Lady Hamilton came to Charles Town in order to return the governor’s daughter, who had been kidnapped by other pirates, pirates who intended to demand a ransom. And in thanks for that, Lady Hamilton was shot and killed, and Captain Flint would have been hanged, if he had not escaped. Whatever else Flint may have done, that doesn’t seem right to me. Does it to you?’ 

Abigail still didn't know what to think about Mr McGraw's—Captain Flint's—motives. Perhaps he had really been in league with Vane; perhaps they had planned the attack from the beginning. But she could at least understand exactly why he'd hated her father so much. And she thought she could even begin to realise the pain and fury that might have driven him to such destruction. 

‘It sounds like an ugly tale when told like that, right enough,’ Isobel said. ‘But am I supposed to believe that it’s true?’ 

‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt since I set sail from England, it’s that the truth can be a stranger story than any we could invent,’ Abigail said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Besides, is it not just as unlikely that a well-born lady would walk into the governor’s house in Charles Town—be _admitted_ into the governor’s house, be treated as a guest—only to attempt to murder him? Such a plan would be so unlikely to succeed that only a fool would think it a good one. And I can tell you one thing about Lady Hamilton. She was no fool.’ 

Isobel took a gulp of tea, frowning at the table as her mind appeared to work. 

‘And this Colonel Rhett, the man you accuse of this murder. Where is he now?’ 

‘He’s dead, I understand.’ 

‘If he’s dead, and the governor is also dead, what do you hope to gain by selling this story?’ Isobel demanded. 

‘The truth,’ Abigail said, and found that the tremor had left her voice. ‘I was raised to believe that the truth is important—that _justice_ is important. And I knew Lady Hamilton. She was my friend. I want the truth of what happened to her to be known, instead of slanderous tales.’ 

‘A noble sentiment,’ Isobel said, slowly. She peered at Abigail, as if trying to assess her. ‘But I cannot be perceived as being in sympathy with the pirates, you must see that.’ 

‘I am not suggesting you say anything about the pirates. What came after, what they did in Charles Town—that is a different story, and you've already told it anyway. All we can tell you is what happened in that house, and if you don’t believe us…' Abigail clenched her hands tightly and played her final card. 'Well, whether you believe us or not, such a story will sell your paper, will it not?’ 

Isobel let out a short bark of laughter. ‘Aye, you have me there. Folk always want to read a scandal, true or no.’ She got up from her chair and fished in the pocket of her voluminous skirt, producing a small, leather pouch. ‘Very well, I will buy your story. Here.’ She took from the pouch several coins and held them out. 

Abigail took another breath in, ignoring the proffered money. The next part was delicate—and difficult. She didn’t want to do it, but it had to be done. Otherwise there was little point in any of this.

‘There’s something else. I also have some other information. I possess evidence that… that the governor… that he may have been given his position as part of a bribe. A reward for his part in besmirching the good name of Lady Hamilton and others in London, as a result of which Lady Hamilton was forced to leave England.’ 

For a moment, Isobel stood stock still, her hand with the money still extended. Then she dropped back into her chair. 

‘You have _evidence_ , you say? What sort of evidence? And what is all this really about, Miss Carlisle? Do you expect me to believe that a young girl your age is so very passionate about truth and justice that she will go to these lengths to expose the crimes of two dead men? Come, give me the whole story.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ Abigail said, in a small voice. ‘I can’t give you the whole story. Not yet. You’re right—this is a personal matter to me, but I cannot tell you why. I do have the evidence, though—in the form of letters written to the governor by a benefactor in England.’ She gripped the edge of the table tightly, and leaned forwards. ‘All I’m asking is that you publish the story. Say it's a rumour, if you want, that it's just a story someone told you, because enough people will believe it anyway. As for the second part, the part about the letters, all I need is a hint of it. A suggestion that the evidence exists. Because it does. I have the evidence, whether you believe me or not. And I don’t need payment—your help in doing this is all I ask. Please, Isobel, for the sake of a woman who deserved justice and got none.’ 

It was another gamble, this time on the character of the woman she was talking to. But Isobel McDermott was an unmarried woman with a child, a woman running her own business in a city that surely wouldn’t be entirely friendly towards such a woman, whatever Georgia’s reputation for tolerance. Surely, she would have some fellow-feeling for other women in hard circumstances? 

Isobel sighed. ‘Very well. God knows, I could do with the sales it’ll bring. We'll print the story. But I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Carlisle, for if I’m not mistaken, you are asking me to help you poke a wasp’s nest.’ 

*

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Abigail said at dinner that night. ‘Forgive me, for I know you’ve been trying to make arrangements for me, Mr Elliott. But I do not want to return to England yet.’ 

They stared at her, Mrs Elliott’s fork pausing halfway to her mouth. 

‘Miss Ashe…’ Mr Elliott began, drawing himself up and puffing out his chest in the way she had come to recognise as being his response whenever his wishes were questioned. 

‘Don’t worry,’ Abigail went on, keeping her voice as sweet and serene as possible, ‘I shall not need to intrude upon your hospitality. I have enough money for the present time, and I can take a house myself…’ 

‘Miss Ashe,’ Mr Elliott broke in, ‘I beg of you to stop this. It is quite out of the question. A young girl of your age, alone! No, no, it wouldn’t do. Besides, I have already written to your great-uncle and told him that you will return home as soon as possible. Think what he would say to this plan of yours!’ 

‘Mr Elliott, my great-uncle is an elderly bachelor who lives in isolation, in a castle on the Welsh border, and spends his days studying butterflies. I have met him exactly once. I don’t think he cares a great deal what I do—and I don’t think you can expect to hear from him very soon. Meanwhile, my father’s assets here in the colonies are enough to support myself on until I can make arrangements in England. I spoke to Papa’s lawyer before we left Charles Town.’ 

Mr Elliott’s face turned pink during this speech, and he opened his mouth then closed it again, as if lost for words. Abigail had known that her proposal would be met with dismay and opposition, but she took another forkful of food and tried to remain calm, as if what she was suggesting was quite normal and reasonable. 

When Mr Elliott said nothing, his wife leaned forwards towards Abigail, her forehead creased with worry. 

‘My dear, don’t talk this way. Of course, you shall stay with us as long as you remain here—let there be no more talk of anything else. But do think of what you’re saying. What future is there for you here? What…?’ 

‘Eliza, that’s enough,’ Mr Elliott broke in, holding a hand out to stop his wife. ‘Miss Ashe. I will speak plainly. I can only suppose that the balance of your mind is somewhat upset by your misfortunes, which is not to be wondered at. But you must see that your wayward behaviour is most unbecoming. In the absence of your guardian, I have to put my foot down. You’re seventeen years old; you cannot possibly remain in the colonies alone, with no family and no protector. You will sail within the next few days, so please prepare yourself. That’s all that I will say on the subject.’ 

*

In the morning, Abigail came down to breakfast to find no sign of Mr Elliott, but Mrs Spencer, the housekeeper, was standing beside Mrs Elliott’s chair. Their heads were close together, poring over something on the table. 

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Elliott,’ Mrs Spencer was saying as Abigail came in, ‘but I just thought you ought to know, before…’ 

She glanced up, caught sight of Abigail and stopped, her cheeks turning red. Mrs Elliott looked around, and immediately snatched the paper off the table and onto her lap beneath it. 

‘Oh, good morning, Abigail!’ she said, far too brightly. 

Abigail advanced to the table, hoping that her face wasn’t giving her away, and sat down in her usual seat. 

‘Good morning. Is everything all right?’ 

‘Yes, yes! No need for you to worry. I was just… just speaking with Mrs Spencer about arrangements for the dinner party on Tuesday.’ 

She was lying, that much was clear. And Abigail had a good suspicion what had just been hidden from her. 

‘Was that the _Georgia Gazette_ you were looking at?’ she asked, innocently. 

The two other women exchanged glances, and Mrs Elliott looked a little panicked. 

‘Oh, er, yes, but it…’ The door opened behind her, and Mrs Elliott turned to it with a look of great relief. ‘Oh, good morning, Samuel. You were out early!’ 

Mr Elliott came in. His colour was high, and he was frowning heavily. In his hand was another copy of the _Gazette_ , and Mrs Elliott’s hopeful smile died as her eyes fell on it. 

‘If you’ll excuse us, Mrs Spencer,’ he said, stiffly, as if exercising great self-control. 

‘Of course, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsy and left the room, with one backwards glance at Mrs Elliott. 

‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded, as soon as Mrs Spencer was gone, slamming the paper down on the table. 

‘Samuel!’ protested Mrs Elliott, her eyes darting to Abigail. ‘Please! Don’t you think…’ 

‘I don’t think you need to worry, Eliza,’ Mr Elliott said, grimly, leaning with both arms on the table. ‘I think Miss Ashe has seen the contents of this article already.’ 

Abigail stared up at him, her body going still, something curdling in her stomach. How could he know? _What_ did he know? 

‘Why, Samuel, what do you mean?’ Mrs Elliott asked in dismay. 

Mr Elliott picked up the _Gazette_ and read from it. 

‘ _A source from the governor’s household… two eye-witnesses… A close associate of Lady Hamilton’s…_ ’ He looked up. ‘Miss Ashe, there is only one person who could be described in this way, an associate of Lady Hamilton’s who was in the house when she died, and that person is you. I saw the spectacle you made of yourself over her death. I know that you feel she was wronged, and believe me, I am sorry for that if it’s true. But _this!_ Miss Ashe, please tell me that I am wrong. Please tell me that you didn’t do this.’ 

Anything Abigail might have said, any protest she might have made, dried up in her throat before it reached her lips. What, after all, was the point of lying? He wouldn’t believe her. And if Mr Elliott thought badly of her for what she had done, then so be it. She thought badly of herself too, but she would feel worse if she kept lying. 

‘I cannot tell you that, Mr Elliott,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I’m sorry for what you must think of me, but all I have done is tell the truth…’ 

‘Miss Ashe!’ Mrs Elliott sounded aghast, but her husband talked over her. 

‘The truth!’ he burst out. ‘Do you have any idea… _any_ idea? Are you trying to ruin your own father’s reputation? And him only a week in his grave! It’s… it’s _indecent!_ Preposterous! And the idea that he accepted a bribe—Miss Ashe, I cannot imagine how you conceived such a thought. I know that the mind of a young girl is inclined to hysteria, but this is beyond _anything_ …’ His voice trailed off, as words failed him to describe what she had done. 

Abigail twisted her hands together under the table and fought to hold back the tears. She must stay strong. She had done the right thing—she must just keep believing that. 

‘I assure you, Mr Elliot, I am not hysterical,’ she said, but her voice shook. 

‘Enough,’ he said, with great finality. ‘Enough. Miss Ashe, your mind is disturbed—it’s the only explanation I can think of. I think it is best if you remain in the house—best, in fact, if you remain in your own room—and I will secure you a berth on the first ship sailing for England, chaperone or no chaperone. I will have no more of this business in my house.’ 

Abigail lifted her chin, gathering the very last of her courage. ‘I have told you, Mr Elliott, I don’t wish to…’ 

‘This has gone far beyond what you wish, young lady. I have given you your own way quite long enough. Now, will you retire to your room gracefully, or must I summon the doctor to administer you a sedative?’ 

The thought of a sedative made Abigail’s insides shrink. The pirates—the first ones who had captured her—had sedated her, and she could still remember the horrible feeling of drifting in and out of an involuntary sleep. Being half awake, but unable to move her limbs or cry out for help, not knowing what was happening to her or where she was. It had been almost the most frightening part of the whole ordeal. She wouldn’t—she _couldn’t_ —go through that again. But looking up at him, she could see that he meant what he said. 

__She stood him. ‘I will go, sir. But I tell you, I will not board that ship.’_ _

In her room, she huddled in a chair, trembling. The plan was all going wrong. It hadn’t occurred to her that the Elliotts would guess that she had been the one to publicise the story. And she couldn’t leave for England. Not now that she had set things in motion—she had to be here, to see them through to the end. Otherwise, who knew what might happen? 

And with the crumbling of her plan, her certainty was all ebbing away too. Was the truth really worth this? Was she just a silly little girl trying to deal with things so much larger than herself, as Mr Elliott clearly thought? And what of Papa? For the past few days, her anger with him had kept her from thinking about it. Now his face kept floating into her mind. His kind, bearded face, his eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled. What would that face look like if he knew what she was doing? He would be angry—but, worse, he would also be _hurt_. And rightfully so. She was betraying him in the surest way possible—attacking his reputation, and hers with it. 

He had done a terrible thing. No, he had done a _number_ of terrible things. But now it was as if she was taking the side of the pirates who had murdered him. The pirates who had destroyed Charles Town. She remembered what Chloe had said about them freeing the slaves. How was it possible to make sense of any of it? How was it possible to know good from evil? 

A light tap at the door interrupted her tormented thoughts, and Mrs Elliott came in, bearing a tray of breakfast. Her voice rattled on in Abigail’s ear, pouring out what were probably meant to be comforting and persuasive words. Only the odd phrase filtered through to Abigail’s mind. 

_‘Won’t be so bad… Don’t worry about Samuel… Understand that you’re angry… Just think… Put it all behind you…’_

Eventually, when Abigail simply stared across the room with no response, the words ran out, and there was a pause. 

‘Well,’ Mrs Elliott said, helplessly. ‘Do try to eat something. At least take some tea. You need your strength.’ 

She waited, but Abigail still didn’t reply, so she turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her. A murmur of voices came from the passageway outside, too quiet for her to catch the words. The next moment, there was a click that made her head jerk up. She knew that sound. She had heard it before, not so long ago. The sound of a key turning in a lock. 

Abigail jumped up and flew to the door. She twisted the handle, but it didn’t open. 

‘No,’ she whispered, then as the full situation began to sink in and her breath stuck in her throat: ‘No, no, no, no.’ 

Frantically she rattled at the door, a sob catching her chest and a ringing in her ears. No. This couldn’t be happening. Abigail clutched the door handle like a lifeline, but the walls were closing in. There was no way out. She was trapped. The handle felt like rusty metal under her fingers and she let go as if it had burned her. She was back in the fort. The walls around her were dark stone. Smells of damp and earth and something fouler choked her, and she couldn’t breathe. Something tight was around her chest, crushing it. She couldn't _breathe_. 

Abigail sank to the floor with her forehead against the door, sobbing raggedly, gasping for breath. She was trapped again, she was a prisoner, she couldn’t escape, and she was going to die here… 

Darkness, when it closed over her head, was almost a relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the Georgia Gazette didn't exist until the 1760s, and it certainly wasn't started by a woman called Isobel McDermott, so I'm sorry about that. But several of the other colonies (you know, the ones that had actually been established by 1715) had newspapers at this date. And in London, the first British daily paper had been started by Elizabeth Mallet in 1702, so... my plot isn't completely without historical back-up? :P


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about what I'm doing with the timeline here. Currently this story is still taking place in the period between Season 2 and Season 3. Quite a lot of stuff is implied (in canon) to have happened in that time, and I gave myself a headache trying to work out who knew which parts of the story at this point, so I'm hoping I haven't directly contradicted too many canon elements. From this point, though, it's going to diverge from canon, so Season 3 isn't going to happen (at least not in the same way it happens on the show), although you can assume that outside stuff (e.g. what's happening to Eleanor in London) is still going on in the background, and will become relevant.
> 
> I hope that makes sense! :P

How long she lay crumpled there against the door, Abigail didn’t know, but slowly she became aware that something was pushing at her. The door. The door was pushing her. 

Someone was trying to open it from the other side.

Awareness rushed back, and Abigail stumbled to her feet, backing away from the door. 

‘Miss?’ The voice was no more than a whisper, as Chloe slipped in and closed the door behind her. ‘Oh, Miss! Are you all right?’ 

It was almost as much of a relief as when Miss Guthrie had appeared in her cell and told Abigail she’d come to get her out. She stretched out a hand to Chloe. 

'Chloe! How did you…?

Chloe took her outstretched hand. ‘Mrs Spencer told me what happened. I saw Mr Elliott put the key on the mantel, so I just waited until he’d gone, then took it. He didn’t have no call to lock you in—he’s not your master!’ Her voice, which had risen in indignant, fell again. ‘But, Miss, he’s got it all fixed. There’s a ship sailing at daybreak, and he says that you will be on it if he has to drug you and carry you to the harbour himself.’ 

Abigail took great breaths, trying to get herself under control again. She mustn’t panic. But what was she to do? 

‘We must get away from here. We must… we must go somewhere.’ She cast a wild look around the room, searching for an idea, some kind of inspiration, anything. Then her eyes came to rest on Chloe. ‘But Chloe, you aren’t bound to me. I must go, but I don’t know where I shall end up, and you don’t have to come with me.’ 

Chloe’s smile gleamed, and her fingers squeezed Abigail's. ‘Miss, I’m not coming with you. You’re coming with me.’ 

Abigail could only watch, her head still spinning, as Chloe moved around the room, rapidly packing Abigail’s clothes and few belongings into her leather case. There was no careful folding this time; she shoved everything in any way she could, then came and took both Abigail’s hands in hers again. 

‘Ready, Miss Abigail? Come, we must be quick.’ 

They slipped out of the room and down the deserted passage. 

‘Chloe,’ Abigail murmured. ‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Ssh,’ Chloe told her, casting a look over her shoulder. ‘Just trust me.’ 

They left through the back door, past the kitchen, and Chloe must have calculated the timing, for none of the servants were there. The door opened into the garden, where Abigail was almost startled by the bright daylight. The feeling of being trapped back in the fort had been so real that she had half-expected to emerge into the night, as she had in Nassau, but of course it could be no more than an hour or so after breakfast, if that. 

She hesitated on the doorstep, glancing up at the house. In the light, all it would take would be for someone to look out of a window. 

Chloe took her hand, Abigail’s bag clutched in the other. 

‘Come on, quick!’ 

And before Abigail could protest, she was being pulled across the yard, and out of a small gate into a narrow lane, lined on the other side with trees, draped in Spanish Moss, their top branches whispering quietly in the faint breeze. 

‘We can go by this street—it leads all the way down to the harbour, but it’s not much used and half in the trees,’ Chloe said. ‘But put this on first, Miss, in case we meet anyone.’ 

She bent, and from the grass by the side of the path, she pulled a bundle of cloth, which turned out to be a cloak so large that it would have gone around Abigail twice. 

‘Where did you get this?’ Abigail asked, mystified. ‘Did you leave it here?’ 

‘I’ll explain everything, Miss, but just put the hood up and come on. We must get you across town without anyone noticing.’ 

The hood covered Abigail’s head so that she could only see a narrow window directly in front of her, and had to follow Chloe blindly. Her mind was still in pieces, but she was starting to be able to think again. 

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘Why are we going to the harbour? I can’t leave Savannah, Chloe!’ 

‘We’re not going to the harbour,’ Chloe said, over her shoulder. ‘We’re just going near the harbour. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, Miss—Mr Elliott, he said he was sending you to England, and I’m not about to let you go off without me. But I don’t want to go to England either—I’ve heard it’s awful cold there. So I went back to Miss McDermott at the print shop…’ 

‘You didn’t tell her who I am?’ Abigail’s voice was sharp with sudden worry. 

‘No, Miss—I didn’t, I swear! I only said you needed help and a place to stay for a while, and I don’t think she was too pleased, but she said we could go there while you decide what to do.’ 

While she decided what to do? Abigail had no idea how she was going to decide that. She seemed to be at a dead end, with nowhere to turn. If Mr Elliott found her, he would make her leave for England, whether she wanted to or not. She could hardly hide from him for long in a place the size of Savannah. And she didn’t want to go to the print shop—Isobel McDermott had been pleasant enough, but she could hardly be counted a friend. If she found out who Abigail was, she would no doubt send word to Mr Elliott immediately. 

But she couldn’t think of anything else to do either. She felt sick and shaky, as if her legs might not hold her up for very much longer, and somewhere quiet to rest and think was what she needed. Perhaps then she’d be able to come up with a new plan. 

By the time they reached the little shop, Abigail's vision was starting to swim. She felt exhausted, as if she’d been running in the heat, but she tried to gather herself as they entered. Isobel McDermott mustn’t know what a horrible fright she’d had, or that she’d fainted like that. 

‘Well, and here you are,’ Isobel’s voice said, as they entered. ‘And now perhaps you’ll tell me what this sudden emergency is all about.’

Abigail pushed the hood back from her face. She was far too hot in the cloak, and the room felt small and close, as if there wasn’t quite enough air. 

‘I… thank you, Miss McDermott,’ she whispered with difficulty. ‘I’m sorry… to intrude.’ 

‘Good Lord.’ Isobel came up beside her, and put a hand under Abigail’s arm, supporting her. ‘What happened to you?’ She looked at Chloe. ‘Is she ill?’ 

‘No,’ Abigail said, before Chloe could speak. ‘No, I’m… I’m quite all right.’ 

‘That you’re not,’ Isobel said crisply. ‘If you’re not ill, you’ve had a shock of some kind. You’re shaking. Come, explanations can wait. Upstairs is best, in case I have customers come in. You, what’s-your-name, Chloe. Take her other arm going up the stairs. Biddy, put the kettle on the fire for tea. I’ll be back down shortly.’ 

Abigail tried to protest, but Isobel was having none of it, and helped her up the stairs with a protective arm. It was nice to lean on someone for a moment, and even nicer to be settled on a soft, shabby sofa, where she could rest her spinning head. 

‘Now, rest there,’ Isobel told her. ‘Recover yourself, and I’ll bring you some tea up.’ 

‘Don’t lock the door,’ Abigail said, hardly knowing what she was saying. ‘Please. Don’t lock me up here.’ 

Isobel looked down at her with an odd expression. 

‘Don’t fash, lass. Nobody is locking you anywhere.’ 

She left, and Abigail lay back on the sofa, starting to feel a little better in the quiet peace of the room. It was a bright, neatly-kept space, much less elegant than any room Abigail had lived in, either in England or in the colonies, but there were colourful rugs on the floor, cushions on the chairs, and sun flowing through the windows. At one end, a curtain hung across the room, creating what was presumably a second room behind it. Downstairs, there was the sound of a door opening and closing, and the murmur of voices. Chloe's warm little hand crept into hers.

'You sure you're all right, Miss?' she whispered.

Abigail turned to look at her, feeling a sudden rush of affection. For all the short time they'd known each other, she'd trust Chloe ahead of just about anyone else now. But because of that, she couldn't drag Chloe down with her.

'I don't know what's going to happen next, Chloe,' she said. 'I don't know where I'm going to go. You... you shouldn't have to follow me. I don't even know if I'm going to be able to pay you.'

'I wasn't ever paid before you came along, Miss,' Chloe pointed out.

'Yes, but I won't have you going back to that!'

Chloe brought her other hand up and placed it over Abigail's. 'Miss, you tell me I'm no slave. So, no disrespect, but it ain't up to you to say you won't have this or won't have that. I'll decide for myself, and I'm not leaving you.'

For a moment, Abigail couldn't speak, something in her throat swelling painfully. Then, before she could manage to reply, footsteps sounded on the stairs again. Isobel appeared with a tea tray, but she wasn't alone. A second woman followed behind her, much taller than Isobel, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, her sleek, dark hair swept into a large twist at the back of her head, and her skin the colour of the baked Savannah earth. Abigail struggled into a sitting position, her heart beating fast as she stared at the stranger. Chloe's hands tightened on hers.

‘Well. And so you are the young woman who has been causing all this stir on the street,’ the second woman said. Her voice was quiet but resonant, and her vowels were those of an educated woman, although she had a faint accent that Abigail couldn’t place. 

‘I… I'm sorry... Who...?'

'This is Mrs Musgrove,' Isobel said, calmly. 'Mary Musgrove. She's a very good friend of mine, and I think she may be able to help us with this situation.' She put the tray on a small table and pulled it up beside Abigail, then sat down on a chair. ‘And now, how about you tell us what’s really going on, Miss Ashe?’ 

Abigail gaped at her, heat flooding her face, then turned and stared wordlessly at Chloe, whose eyes had gone wide. 

‘I didn’t tell her!’ Chloe whispered. ‘I swear I didn’t!’ 

Isobel looked almost amused. ‘If you’re going to play these games, Miss Ashe, you need to get better at them. I knew who you must be the moment you told me your story—who else could you be? Quite apart from the fact that I think you came close to slipping up and calling Lord Ashe ‘my father’. I assume that your protectors in Savannah discovered your part in publishing this story, and that this is why you suddenly needed a place to go?’ 

Abigail swallowed. She should have known she’d be no good at this. All this lying and scheming—how could she ever have imagined she could pull it off? And now Isobel and her friend would send for Mr Elliott, and it would all be over. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry for lying to you.’ 

A look that Abigail couldn’t interpret passed between Isobel and Mrs Musgrove. 

‘Lord, child,’ Isobel said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a fine mess, haven’t you? What’s it all in aid of? Did you hate your father so much? Don’t worry, I wouldn’t blame you—I never loved my own a great deal either.’ 

She was being kinder than Abigail had expected, but her words still made Abigail turn her face away, hot tears pressing behind her eyelids. 

‘No. No, it’s not like that at all. I didn’t hate him. I… I loved him.’ She could keep the tears back no longer, and they rolled down her cheeks. ‘I loved him, but that doesn’t mean… He’d done such terrible things, but I didn’t want to… to _punish_ him—I only want the wrongs he did to be righted, and I’m the only person who can do it!’ 

They listened to her outburst in silence, and there was a short pause, then Isobel produced a folded handkerchief and handed it over. Abigail took it and wiped hastily at her eyes. 

‘I see.’ Mrs Musgrove folded her arms across her chest and sighed. ‘Another idealist on our hands, Isobel.’

‘You must think me a fool,’ Abigail said, softly. A foolish _child_ —that must be what they were thinking. 

Isobel raised her eyebrows. ‘A fool? No. But you talk a great deal about truth and justice and righting wrongs, lass. I’m just not sure what justice you think you’re gaining by this.’ 

Abigail twisted the handkerchief in her hands. ‘I… I don’t know how to explain. You’ve been so kind, but I can’t ask you to do more. I just need to find a way to stay in Savannah. The Elliotts—the people I was staying with—want me to return to England.’ 

‘And you don’t want to go?’ Isobel asked. 

‘I _can’t_ go. Not now. I must finish what I’ve started.’ 

‘Hm. Well I think it might be time to tell us what that is, exactly. You’ve already got me in this up to my neck—and that’s my fault more than yours, and maybe I shouldn’t have done it.’ She cast another swift look at Mrs Musgrove, and her voice softened. ‘What’s done is done, and both Mary and I understand what it is to be a young girl alone in this world. Nobody here means to betray you or take away your freedom. I think it’s time to tell us. What _have_ you started, Miss Ashe?’ 

Abigail looked into Isobel’s face for a moment. She wanted to do it. She wanted to trust them—they were older than her, they knew so much more, perhaps they could help. But she hardly knew them. How could she tell them her story? 

Mrs Musgrove sighed and moved to stand beside Isobel, her hand resting on Isobel’s shoulder. 

‘Listen to me, Miss Ashe. We want to help you. Oh, I know—you’ve got no reason to trust us. But I admire you; you’ve got guts. So let me tell you a few things about me. In Savannah my name is Mary Musgrove, but elsewhere I am called Coosaponakeesa. I am Muscogee—what the people here call Creek Indian—but through my father, I’m also English. I live in two worlds, I understand and speak the language of both, and as such I am useful to this city. I’m the reason Savannah exists, the reason it has peace, and I have the ear of the governor. With my protection nobody would be able to touch you. But I would need to know what it is I’m protecting. Understand?’ 

Abigail stared at her for a moment. She knew that there were Creek people who came into town, but she had never spoken to any of them, and it was hard to reconcile her picture of the native tribes with the smartly-dressed woman before her, speaking in English that wouldn’t have been terrible out of place in a London parlour. But then, so many of her mental pictures of the New World had turned out to be very wrong. 

The governor. Mrs Musgrove claimed to have influence with him, but Abigail wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. She knew little about Governor Oglethorpe; she had heard he was a progressive man, and he had founded Georgia as a free colony, without slavery, but he had also been an associate of her father. Papa had written highly of him, and, indeed, his name featured in the letters Abigail had found. 

‘I do not know if the governor would approve of my plan,’ she said, haltingly. 

Mrs Musgrove laughed. ‘I said I have his ear, not that I tell him everything I know. I’m no spy for Oglethorpe—although I will say that he’s a reasonable man, with good intentions. But I only meant that I have certain resources at my disposal if necessary.’ 

Abigail looked at her a moment longer, then sighed. After all, what choice did she have? By herself, she had run out of options. And she needn’t tell them everything, for there were some parts of what she knew that they would never guess at. 

‘If you know who I am, you know most of my story already,’ she said. 'I told you that Lady Hamilton was my friend, and she was. I knew her in England when I was only a child, and she saved me when I was held prisoner—she and some others. And now she's dead, so the only thing I can repay her with is the truth. But you're right—there is more to what I'm trying to do than that. And I will tell you, for I think I may need your help. Lady Hamilton is dead, and I can't bring her back. But there is a man who is still alive, and whatever he is, whatever he's done, I owe him just as much as I owe Lady Hamilton...' 

*

The _Walrus_ slipped into Nassau on the last of the wind. It was half dark, and the breeze had dropped with the sun, but that no longer mattered once their anchors were down.

Billy watched as the men prepared to disembark, jostling and laughing, looking forward to being ashore. It had been another tough run. Flint’s grim mood hadn’t lifted, and Billy knew that things were going to get worse before they got better. This was different from hunting ships. He knew the rules of hunting—they all did. There would be a fight and people would die, but once the battle was over, so was the killing, for the most part. 

What they were doing now was different. And Billy would do it, he’d follow orders, follow _Flint_. He’d give it everything he’d got, because that was what he’d made up his mind to do. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

‘Going ashore?’ 

He looked around to find Silver at his elbow, and grunted a response that could have meant yes or no. Silver gave him a look through narrowed eyes. 

‘Cheer up. It’s over for a few days anyway.’ 

Billy shook his head. ‘And then what? Are we going to burn our way through every settlement on the coast?’ 

‘If you’ve got a problem with the plan…’ Silver started. 

‘My only problem with the plan is that it’s barely a plan. You know that as well as I do. One ship, waging war against the world. How long’s that going to last?’ 

‘The plan isn’t to win the war in one campaign; it’s to breed fear. And it’s working. You know it’s working.’ 

Billy said nothing, because there was nothing to say. He had to believe in the plan. Silver had to believe in the plan. Because if they didn’t, they’d just be following a madman in a bloodthirsty revenge quest. 

He shook himself out of it. Silver was right—they were home, and he had to take what time he could get to relax. 

‘Yes, I’m going ashore. You coming?’ 

They found themselves in the tavern. The brothel didn’t attract Billy much—he’d _been_ there, of course, mostly to shut the others up, and sure, it was pleasant enough while it lasted, and a good way to forget everything for a brief time. And it wasn’t that he didn’t understand the temptations; as far as physical needs went, he felt them too. But he never found them particularly satisfied by a visit to the brothel—he might just as well use his hand as fuck a woman who was only with him for the coin.

As for Silver—well, if Billy was honest, he had no idea what the man’s habits had been before everything had changed at Charles Town, but Silver certainly didn’t show much interest in whores now. Billy still didn’t trust Silver as far as he could throw him—or even as far as Silver would be able to throw Billy, which would be a considerably shorter distance—but he had to admit that he liked him a little more than he had before. He made a decent drinking companion, anyway, and rum was a far more reliable way to forget about things for a while than the brothel. 

‘If you could give it all up tomorrow,’ Silver said suddenly, ‘would you do it?’ 

Billy looked at him. Silver didn’t sound drunk—his words weren’t slurred—but he’d had enough to make the pain lines around his eyes ease out. And enough to make him start dwelling on deep questions, apparently. 

‘Give what up?’ he asked, though he knew the answer really. 

‘This life.’ Silver waved an arm. ‘The hunting, the stealing, the constant risk of painful death. If Flint’s plan had worked and he’d won us all pardons and a way to turn Nassau into a colony. Would you have wanted that? Would you have taken it?’ 

Billy thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. Probably. I can see the appeal, and I assume you can too, unless that speech you made to the men before we set out was just more of your unbelievable bullshit.’ 

Silver laughed. ‘Oh, unbelievable bullshit or not, I can see the appeal all right.’ 

He poured more rum into both their cups, and Billy took a large mouthful as his mind dwelt on Silver’s question. A pardon. A return to a peaceful life. Even when he’d been a prisoner of the navy and had been offered those pardons, he’d never seriously thought about taking them. That would have meant betraying his brothers—betraying his captain—and that was unthinkable. 

But a pardon offered freely, with no conditions attached except that he turned his hand to some lawful activity instead? A pardon that allowed him to stay in Nassau? Yes, that was appealing, although Billy couldn’t quite imagine what sort of life he’d be able to make for himself. It was too long since he’d been anything other than a pirate. He couldn’t go back to what he’d been before, even if he’d wanted to—none of them could. 

‘Doesn’t matter, anyway,’ he muttered, feeling the alcohol starting to kick in for real. ‘We’re not getting those pardons.’ 

And even if they were, he still wouldn’t be going to see her again. 

He pushed the thought away, because he was done with those thoughts. Where the hell had they come from anyway? Nowhere, that was where. A few glances exchanged, the sight of a half-smile lighting up her face in his direction once, nothing more than that. What was he, some romantic kid, creating fantasies in the air because an attractive girl crossed his path one time? 

He couldn’t help wondering, though, in moments like this when he had rum coursing through his blood, what had happened to her. Where she was now. Whether she was safe. 

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Silver demanded. ‘Is this still about…’ 

He got no further. They were suddenly joined by a third man, who yanked out a chair and sat down without an invitation. 

‘Good,’ Jack Rackham said. ‘I was looking for one of you two, and here you are together. I have something you might be interested in.’ 

‘Evening to you too, Rackham,’ Silver said, casting his eyes over the expensive embroidered jacket Rackham was wearing. ‘You’ve been looking after yourself.’ 

‘Well, appearances to uphold and all that.’ Rackham waved a hand airily. ‘And speaking of keeping up an image, Max tells me that the name of Captain Flint is already being whispered up and down the coast. He does make an excellent terrifying monster, doesn’t he? Though you should be careful—the more the stories fly about, the better they’re going to defend the ports.’ 

Billy and Silver exchanged a glance. They both knew what state of mind the captain was in, and ‘careful’ wasn’t part of it. And there was an edge in all their dealings with Rackham. Supposedly, they were all on the same side now, part of this strange alliance, but the fact remained that all this new wealth of Rackham’s came from the gold he had snatched from the crew of the _Walrus_. Billy couldn’t quite forgive that, and, from the tension he detected in Silver, he guessed that the quartermaster couldn’t either. 

‘What’s this about, Rackham?’ Billy demanded. 

Rackham swiped a cup from the next table and helped himself from their bottle of rum, before pulling from the inside pocket of his coat a folded piece of paper. 

‘Have a read of that,’ he said. 

Silver took the paper but didn’t open it immediately. ‘What is it?’ 

‘The _Georgia Gazette_ ,’ Rackham said, taking a swallow of rum and leaning back in his chair. ‘Max has it brought in, so she can keep up-to-date with news from the mainland. Or as up-to-date as possible—this is dated two weeks ago, and Max got it the day before yesterday. But it has some, well, _interesting_ content that relates especially to your crew, so I thought you might want to see it first, before it gets around the town. You’re welcome.’ 

Silver gave Rackham a long look, then slowly unfolded the paper and began to read, a crease appearing in his brow. Slight unease settled over Billy. What was all this? If it was just some report of their raiding, why was Rackham making such an issue of it? 

After a few moments, Silver looked up. ‘Well, fuck,’ he said. 

‘Precisely my reaction,’ Rackham agreed. ‘I’d hoped you might have a bit more light to shed on things than that, though. Because I have a _hell_ of a lot of questions.’ 

Billy found his voice. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ 

‘Read it for yourself,’ Silver said, passing him the paper. 

So Billy did, trying to take in what he was reading. And his unease sank deeper into him. What the hell was this? Was it the missing link, the part that the captain had refused to tell anyone? He scanned it for a name, for some hint of the identity of the informant, but there was nothing. 

‘Well?’ Rackham said, after a long pause. ‘What is the meaning of this? Who is this Lady Hamilton, and what connection does she have to what you lot did in Charles Town? I thought that Flint’s woman was called Mrs Barlow.’ 

‘She was,’ Silver began. 

Billy interrupted, lifting his eyes from the paper. ‘And she was also called Lady Hamilton. They’re the same woman.’ He shrugged when they turned surprised looks on him. ‘I heard Miss Ashe address her as Lady Hamilton when she was on board the _Revenge_. I don’t know which was her true name. But when this paper talks of Lady Hamilton, they’re talking about Mrs Barlow.’ 

‘Good God,’ Rackham said. ‘And is it _true_ , about the way she was killed?’ 

Again, Billy and Silver exchanged glances. 

‘Well, it’s certainly true that she died,’ Silver said, his voice guarded. 

Rackham looked from one of them to the other. ‘Neither of you have got any fucking clue, have you?’ 

‘Well, we were just a little bit preoccupied, what with being attacked by your ex-captain and his madmen, then having to blow up a town,’ Billy said. ‘The finer details of what had happened didn’t seem so relevant.’ 

‘And, frankly, still don’t,’ Silver broke in. ‘Even if it’s true—the men responsible are _dead_. This is no more than scandal-mongering. We have far greater concerns than gossip from the colonies.’ 

Rackham looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and downed his rum in one go. 

‘Very well, if that’s how you look at it. I’ll leave it up to you whether you show it to Flint—good luck with that.’ He stood up. ‘Oh, and tell Flint there’s a council meeting tomorrow morning, if he’d like to attend.’ 

Billy shook his head as Rackham walked away from them. ‘Some council. Rackham, Featherstone, and the brothel Madam, plus Flint and Vane when they're in town.’ 

Silver chuckled. ‘Don’t underestimate the brothel Madam, Billy. But before we report back to Flint, we need to decide what we’re going to do about _this_.’ He pointed at the paper still in Billy’s hands. 

Billy put it on the table and frowned at it. ‘What is there to do about it? What difference does it make in the end? Those bloody bastards in Charles Town, though,’ he added, with a little more heat. ‘I mean, Jesus. Gunning her down in the dining room? No wonder the captain’s…’ 

He trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. No wonder the captain was what? Running mad with grief? Was that what was happening? 

‘Yes, well.’ Silver reached out and took the paper back from Billy. ‘Bloody bastards they may have been, but right now, I’m much more interested in who the hell is spreading this story around Georgia, and why. And then there’s this bit.’ He put the paper on the table and jabbed his finger at a paragraph. ‘Who the fuck wants to discredit Peter Ashe so badly they’re using a rumour of a bribe taken ten years ago? What’s the _point_ of this article?’ 

Billy stared at him. Silver’s questions were certainly interesting, but he wasn’t sure they justified the sudden intensity in Silver’s face and voice. Even if the story was the truth, it didn’t undo anything that had happened, or change their plans in any way. Did it? 

‘What’s _your_ point?’ he asked. 

Silver leaned forwards and read out loud from the article in a whisper. ‘ _Furthermore, it is the belief of this paper’s source that this attempt to discredit and besmirch Lady Hamilton and her associates was so successful that they were forced to flee England amid clouds of scandal and have never again been able to return to their homeland. Although the editor has been unable to confirm the veracity of the account, the said source claims to possess written evidence proving the wicked plot beyond any doubt._ ’ He looked up at Billy. ‘Lady Hamilton and her associates? You want to take a guess at who those associates might have been? Because I reckon I could name at least one of them.’ 

Billy gazed down at the _Georgia Gazette_ as this sank in. Holy hell. Silver was right. But what did it all mean? 

‘You’re saying there’s someone in Savannah with proof that—what? That whatever drove Flint away from England was some… some deliberately fabricated lie?’ 

‘I don’t know about that. There’s someone _claiming_ to have proof, but whether there’s any truth to any of it is another matter. Regardless, I’d like to know exactly why they’ve chosen to print the fact.’ 

Billy rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’ve had too much rum for this.’ 

‘Well, sober up,’ Silver told him. ‘Because Rackham’s right. We’ve got to decide what to tell Flint.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to fit this in with real history as much as canon (and my limited research) allows. 
> 
> James Oglethorpe was the founder of Savannah and Governor of Georgia, although I'm not sure that's ever made clear in the show. 
> 
> Mary Musgrove is a historical figure. Her real dates were quite a bit later than this, but she was very involved in the establishment of Georgia as a colony, so since the show made that earlier than it was in reality, I've brought her earlier too . For the record, her views on the mutual benefits of colonialism aren't views I share, but I have the advantage of hindsight; the real Coosaponakeesa seems to have hoped for a society where everyone could live peacefully together.


End file.
